


The Star in the Well

by Murasaki99



Series: The Shadow of the Unicorn [1]
Category: The Shadow (1994), The Shadow (Pulp), The Shadow - All Media Types, original character - Fandom, unicorn - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Guest Stars, Hildegard von Bingen - Freeform, Immortal, Other, Professor - Freeform, novas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:33:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23370997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murasaki99/pseuds/Murasaki99
Summary: The Shadow loves a mystery.  How could he pass up one that literally walks through his front door in the form of an elderly professor with the disconcerting habit of seeing through disguises and speaking in elliptical riddles?  The old professor wants to find a missing star... how hard could that be?The year is 1935.  The mysterious crime-fighter known as The Shadow has been defending the cause of Justice in his own way since 1931.  Working from his base in New York City and aided by his many agents, he seeks out the masters of evil the police cannot stop and brings their crimes to an end.  Masquerading as wealthy socialite Lamont Cranston, the Shadow moves unseen between the many venues of the city, alert for the traces of true evil.
Relationships: The Shadow & unicorn, The Shadow and a very old Professor
Series: The Shadow of the Unicorn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1680934
Comments: 20
Kudos: 6





	1. Visitor and Volumes

**Author's Note:**

> My first introduction to the pulp hero The Shadow was in the 70's in the form of the DC Comics version written by Denny O'Neil and wonderfully illustrated by Michael William Kaluta. Once I read a few of those, I started a search for the old original pulp stories written by Walter Gibson under the pen name Maxwell Grant. Those really got me hooked on the character - he's mysterious, lurks in dark places, and is completely deadly. A Grey Jedi before his time, what's not to like? The 1994 movie version was great fun as well. My version of the Shadow is drawn from all of the above, plus some inspiration from recent graphic novels written by Matt Wagner and published by Dynamite Comics. Nostalgia Publications are now reprinting many of the original pulp stories including the interior artwork, which is wonderful.   
> Hope you enjoy the ride.

“Good evening sir,” said Richards, the butler. He held the door open as the Shadow, in his guise as Lamont Cranston, strode into his New Jersey mansion. Lamont expected to have the sprawling house to himself, but Richards spoke quickly before he could vanish into Cranston’s study. 

“You have company, sir; Professor Carrick of Oxford, England.”

“A little late for an unannounced social call, isn’t it?” Cranston eyed the old clock above the fireplace mantel in the parlor. It read nine p.m. and Richards himself should have been off duty by now.

“Yes, sir, but I was attending to some household matters and awaiting your return when the doorbell rang.” Richards smiled. “If you recall, sir, you gave myself and your staff standing orders to admit the good Professor at any hour, after he left a quantity of ancient books in your care.” 

Richards had never been formally told that while the real Cranston traveled the world, the crime-fighter known as the Shadow wore his face and took his place in the elite social circles of the city. The butler must have suspected the truth after all this time, however, and offered that bit of information to cover the gap in the Shadow’s knowledge.

“Of course. Thank you, Richards. Where is he? I will go and greet him at once.”

“In his usual place, sir. The library.” 

Richards exited with a bow, leaving Cranston to walk through the main portion of the mansion into a farther wing of the house. The library was a large room with a brick fireplace at one end. A row of tall windows stretching the south side of the chamber looked onto the old rose garden. Some ancestral Cranston with a love of reading had designed it, but the current heir to the fortune spent little time here. The Shadow consulted the references shelved in the room but rarely. He had no time for novels or works of fiction. The only time he’d bothered to do a deep search of the library was to find and read Sherlock Holmes’ monograph on tobacco ashes.

Closest to the fireplace, a ring of well-used armchairs, lamps, and small tables were arranged in a semicircle. A broad table surrounded by several chairs was positioned at the end of the room, before the reading area near the fireplace. Near the further end of the large table stood a tall, hale old man dressed in a long-sleeved shirt of pale green, over which he wore a grey vest. His legs were covered with fawn-colored riding breeches, and a pair of boots finished his attire. A simple dark cravat was knotted at his throat. His hair was shaggy and white with age, and he stood looking down over a large volume that lay open on the table. His entire appearance was far more Dickensian than modern.

He was reading the book and tracing his progress on the page gently with gloved fingers. As Cranston entered, the man lifted his head and smiled. Leaving the book on the table, he strode toward Cranston, extending his hands.

“Ah, Lamont, my good man; how are…”

Halfway across the room he stopped short as if he’d hit a pane of clear glass and stared at “Cranston” with an expression that shifted quickly from happy welcome to deep concern. At this closer range, the Shadow could see the man’s eyes were very blue and filled with deep inner light.

Professor Carrick inhaled deeply then snorted the air out of his lungs like a horse. 

“You. Are not.” He moved no closer, but looked Cranston over with a sober expression. At last he spoke again, his tone quiet and firm. 

“Is my friend still alive?”

“He is perfectly well,” replied the Shadow. Deciding it would be pointless to try to deny the facts, he continued, “Traveling through the Ottoman Empire and beyond, to take the Orient Express across the European nations. He should return to this country in another two months.”

The professor listened to his words with eyes closed, nodding his head a little as he took them in. 

“You speak truth as you know it.” The Professor opened his eyes and stared straight at him, his eyes bright and keen. “Now tell me, if you will, why you stand as a doppelganger in the place of my friend.”

This left the Shadow facing two non-optimal choices; tell the professor something of the real facts of his and Lamont’s arrangement, or attempt to erase this encounter from his unexpected visitor’s memories. But that could lead to even more potential complications. He had only to take the faintest touch of Carrick’s mind to tell it was far different in its order and workings than any he had encountered before. And that mind was instantly aware of him in turn. His skin prickled a little at that, as such challenges were extremely rare in his experience.

“How did you come to know Lamont Cranston?” he asked, deciding to delay his decision on a course of action.

Carrick considered him in silence for a span of moments.

“I first met him in Africa on the plains of the Serengeti, perhaps ten years ago,” he replied. “Lamont was intending to shoot an old tusker elephant with more age, wisdom, and experience than he had.” Carrick smiled. “I persuaded him to hunt instead a rogue lion that had been terrorizing the local villagers. Some days later, I encountered him again and saved him from a pack of hyenas. We became friends, and I was able to visit him here the next time I was in this country. Since that time, I have had a standing invitation, which I take advantage of yearly when my duties bring me to this continent.” 

Carrick’s voice had an odd lilt and inflection to it, as if rooted in old Gaelic. English was definitely not his first language.

“You fought off a pack of hyenas by yourself?” the Shadow asked. In his opinion the studious professor didn’t look like the sort to wade into such a fight, unless perhaps he were to throw a weighty textbook at the creatures.

Carrick laughed and smiled, his face relaxing. “No, I do not usually arm myself with the weapons favored by humanity in this day and age. Nay, I simply asked them to leave and they left. More important by far was that I was able to cure the infection in the bites Lamont had taken during the encounter.”

“You are a Doctor of Medicine?” The Shadow considered the details of Carrick’s story. “You have some skill if you were able to cleanse such wounds. Infections like that are often painfully fatal[1], even with immediate care.”

“I do not possess any modern medical degree,” said Carrick. “Those I have are very old and of little use in this time. But that said, I am a healer, and those skills are not dependent on a piece of parchment.”

“Richards gave you the title Professor when he mentioned you were visiting.”

The man nodded. “He is correct. I hold several doctorates in philology, history, and ancient languages.” Carrick indicated the volume he had left upon the table. “Such stands me in good stead when I must consult the references I left in Lamont’s keeping, when I travel to this continent.” 

“Ah, the rare books. Where and what are they?” asked the Shadow.

The professor’s face lit up at that question. 

“You wish to see them? To start with, my journey here was to consult these two particular sources of information before I traveled further west.” 

Gesturing for the Shadow to follow, he walked to the table, returning to the place where he had left the large volume. Beside it was another book, bound with fine hand-stitched silk typical of old Chinese books. He opened it carefully to reveal a double page mapping stellar constellations annotated in Chinese characters. “This one is the _Xin Yi Xiang Fa Yao_ or the _Celestial Atlas_ by Su Song. From it I wish to see certain of his star maps of the celestial globe.” 

The Shadow looked down at the map and its writings. “The date stamps on this are from the Song Dynasty!”

“You can read the characters? Most excellent! There are few maps in the world that were so accurate or fine in their scope until the telescopes of the present age began to clarify the eye of the astronomer,” said Carrick. 

“And the other volume?”

Carrick touched the book that he had first been perusing. 

“This is a scribal copy of the _Causae et Curaea_ by Hildegard von Bingen. In it are chapters on herbal medicine and the causes and cures for many diseases, according to the thought of the time, which was around _Anno Domini_ 1160.”

“Medieval cures might not be advisable,” the Shadow said. Looking at the volume’s lines of close-lettered old Latin, he shook his head. “I can better read the Chinese text than this.”

“If you can read any of it, you are far more learned than many, young man.” Carrick smiled at him, radiating a sense of happiness, as any teacher would at finding a pupil interested in the topic. “However, to set your mind at ease, I am not going to be formulating remedies according to the four humours[2], but rather, I wanted to read the earlier chapters on the ordering of the universe, the created world, and humankind’s place as part of that vital energy.”

“I wish you well with that,” the Shadow replied. 

“Thank you,” said Carrick, completely missing the ironic undertone. “I will not be staying here overlong. I have work to do far to the west on this continent. Tomorrow I must needs journey to the great city of New York, to visit their library. There I hope to find modern star maps, so I may perform a comparison with the one of Su Song. After that, I will finish my research here and then will depart straightaway.” 

Seating himself at the table, Carrick drew a bound journal and fountain pen from an inner pocket of his vest, opened both, and began making notes while examining the star map. Suddenly he raised his head and looked at the Shadow. 

“How shall I call thee when I am here and my friend is away?”

There it was again, that odd inflection of speech, as if Carrick were having to translate from some other language into mostly-modern English. The Shadow spoke many languages fluently and was familiar enough with even more to pass unnoticed in a market or crowd in cities around the globe, and yet he could not place the man’s accent or the roots of his mother-tongue.

“In this setting and with this face, I must be Lamont Cranston,” he answered, putting aside for the moment the conundrum of languages. “Were your… friend to be here along with myself, I would be wearing a different face and bearing another name.”

Carrick rose and offered him a polite bow. “Very well, Lamont. At this time my curiosity about you is irrelevant to the work before me. It shall be done as you have requested.” 

Seating himself he again took up his pen and carried on with his study of the map. 

“Has Richards had a room prepared for you?” Lamont asked, feeling distinctly that he had been dismissed.

“Oh, yes. I am on the second floor of the main body of this house, in the southeast corner.” Carrick pointed up and through the library in the appropriate direction.

“Very good. I will see you in the morning. I too, need to travel to the city tomorrow. I will have Stanley, my chauffeur, take us both.” 

He left the professor to his studies, moving through the mansion to his own rooms. Having solved a case that very day, he had nothing to occupy his mind that evening except for the mystery of his scholarly visitor. Odd that Cranston had never mentioned him at all in their brief meetings, but then again the real Lamont could be distractible, and knowledge of his eccentric friend might have been buried under other more immediate concerns. 

He retired to bed as any normal person would, but at two a.m. he awoke as planned, and after dressing in the Shadow’s ebony clothing, moved as quietly as his namesake through the mansion to the library. Carrick had gone to bed. All the lights were turned off and the fire had burned itself to warm ash. The only illumination in the room came from the light of a half moon and starlight partly obscured by clouds. That was more than enough for him to see that the ancient books were open upon the table and Carrick had left his small journal closed in the space near the edge of the table. Moving to that spot, he first made careful note of how the journal was positioned, then opened it with gloved fingers. Producing a tiny flashlight he looked at the pages. Carrick’s notes were bold on the page in black ink in a handsome, regular script. The Shadow blinked and frowned at the pages. While the lettering was certainly clear and readable, it was not immediately understandable. 

The Shadow paged gently through the journal, only to find the entire booklet filled with the same style of notes interspersed with sketches of constellations, birds, animals, fish, and herbs. He smiled. Not a word was in English, French, German, Russian, Chinese, or any other language he knew. The form of the letters were similar to those of the Protogothic font in the medieval manuscript Carrick had been studying, and the structure of what must have been conjugate forms made him think of Latin, but there the similarity ended.

“Well done,” he said in a bare whisper. 

Pulling out a small notebook of his own, he took his pen and made a quick hand-copy of the last page, tucked that into his black coat, then closed Carrick’s journal and repositioned it exactly as he had found it.

_Let_ us _see, old Professor, if I cannot prove a more adept student than you think._

[1] This is the mid-1930s and antibiotics to treat infections had not yet been invented. Sulfa, another antibacterial agent, had been discovered in Germany, but did not come into wide use until later in the decade. Even a minor scratch or puncture could kill a person.

[2] An ancient concept of the “humours” that control human health. They can range from air, earth, and water, to bodily fluids such as blood and bile. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Humorism


	2. Celestial Atlas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The old professor is a veritable wellspring of mysteries, from writing in indecipherable scripts to obsessions with ancient star-charts. The Shadow knows the professor must be hiding something important and intends to discover what it is. 
> 
> For those new to The Shadow, when he thinks of "the war" he means World War One, it's the only one he has experienced.

The professor, despite his age, proved to be an early riser. Cranston descended the stairs and walked into the morning room to find Carrick there with a pot of tea, a plate of toast, and the newspaper. He had laid the paper aside however, and was in happy conversation with Richards. The butler and the professor both noted his entrance and Richards moved at once to bring fresh coffee. 

“A fair morning to you,” said Carrick with a smile.

“Is it?” asked Cranston, taking his coffee cup and adding a bit of cream to it. The professor considered his query for a moment, then answered.

“It is. The day gives us a good gentle rain to start and the sun will show his face by noon. The city will be the fresher for it.”

“You do not sound as if you enjoy the city.” Cranston accepted a plate of toast from Richards with a nod of thanks.

“In truth, such a place is a sore trial to me, but for the sake of knowledge, I will bear it for a time.”

“There is much the city has to offer – art and culture, and knowledge, as you say,” Cranston said. He forbore to mention it was also home to scheming criminal masterminds, the pursuit of whom occupied most of his time.

“Aye, you are correct,” Carried nodded. “But the canyons built by humanity are cold and dead. Little grows gladly in that sterile land, including many of the people who reside there.” Carrick looked across the table at Cranston. 

“You have a good heart, why do you center your life here?”

It was such an odd question, Cranston had to think about it for some time. He sensed that old man or not, the professor would be able to discern any misdirection or falsehoods embedded in whatever facts he might care to offer. This feeling caused him to abandon several facile explanations outright. Carrick did not seem to expect a quick reply, sipping his tea and waiting with an air of deep calm. 

“Much of my work takes place in and around the city. I am used to it.” He shrugged. “And besides which, I’ve known worse places. In comparison, the city is by far the better choice.” 

_Compared to Ypres during the battles, almost any place on Earth is better_ , he thought, then sternly refused to travel any further along that chain of agonizing memory. 

Carrick looked at him in concern. 

_How much can he read from me, I wonder? I’m not used to having to guard my thoughts so carefully._

“Take heart; the sun is shining,” said Carrick. “Let us speak of lighter matters.”

“Literally or figuratively?” Cranston returned with a sudden flash of humor.

“Both, actually.” 

From his waistcoat pocket the professor withdrew a folded sheet of translucent vellum paper. Moving his cup and plate out of the way, he unfolded it and spread it open upon the table. 

“See here; this is a tracing of that section of the _Celestial Atlas_ in the quadrant above the Balance Beam, or Three Stars; what we in the West name the belt of Orion.” 

Looking at the star map, Cranston took a moment to take in the positions of the familiar stars. 

“The angles of the constellations are congruent with those seen from Kaifeng, the ancient capital of the Song Dynasty, which is appropriate for Su Song,” said Cranston. “You’ve a steady hand,” he added. The tracing was very precise and clean.

“Thank you. For this work it pays to be careful.” Carrick moved his finger along the Balance Beam, upward, and off to its left. “See this little star? It is faint, but Master Song or his scribe was careful to put it in.”

“I see no name for it,” said Cranston, scanning the Chinese characters. “It is, however, in the mansion of the Vermillion Bird of the South, within the constellation they named the Well, which takes in some of what we call Gemini.”

“Yes indeed,” said Carrick, nodding in approval. “Today, I will check this against the modern astronomical maps held in the New York Public Library in Manhattan.”

“You think Su Song’s map is inaccurate?”

“Not at all,” said Carrick. “But for the faint stars in the Well, trying to view the fine details through the many miles of Earth’s humid atmosphere is difficult, even for a person with excellent vision. I’m not too proud to take advantage of the wonders of modern science to confirm or disprove a theory.”

“Well then, if you are ready, I will have Stanley bring the car around in ten minutes,” said Cranston. 

Carrick smiled at Cranston. “Thank you. That would be very helpful.”

_Why does he want to look for a nameless star?_ Cranston wondered. _Does he have other business in the city, and this errand is simply an excuse to pursue it?_ He was getting no sensation of duplicity from Carrick, but the Shadow’s curiosity was piqued by the professor’s odd quest. Now when he focused on the professor’s face, the man looked more middle aged than old; yet another item to be filed away in his memory. 

\---

The New York Public Library’s main branch in Manhattan was but sparsely attended this early on a workday morning. After dropping the professor at the front steps, Cranston had Stanley drive several blocks up and let him off. 

First he checked in with Burbank, his agent in charge of collecting information sent in by the rest of his agents and coordinating their actions. With him he left a request for any information they might find on a Professor Carrick. That task completed, he returned to the library. It did not require much effort to find Carrick and monitor his activities quietly from the shadows that were his normal habitat. 

The professor, in the company of one of the librarians, was in a room of the library on the third floor reserved for collections of flat materials. The librarian had pulled a stack of large photographs and star maps, and laid them out on a table, and the two were poring over them intently. 

“Here’s a good one of Orion,” said the librarian, a slender woman of middle age with her hair pulled back into a tidy bun. She slid a photograph over. “And the corresponding stellar map.” She added a wide drawing to the stack.

Carrick examined both and pointed to the photograph with a low exclamation. 

“Here it is! The Well. This photograph was taken in 1922.” He turned to the printed star map. “And this map was made in 1925. Here again is the Well.” He gently tapped the map and looked at it pensively. “The star is missing from both.” Pulling out a blank sheet of tracing paper, he made a drawing of each of the images.

“Excuse me?” The librarian looked at him curiously. “Is the map damaged?”

“No, my good lady, not at all. I’m simply not seeing quite what I expected. I thank you for your time; this has been very edifying.” 

He stood in thought as the librarian put the maps away in a large filing cabinet. 

“Could you tell me if there is an observatory nearby where they would allow a scholar to view that quadrant of the sky?”

“Well,” the librarian sounded hesitant. “I wouldn’t call it nearby actually, since it is over 220 miles away, but there is a fine observatory at Cornell University in Ithaca. They permit visitors and have regular viewing hours in the evening, if you don’t mind a bit of a trip across the state.”

Carrick smiled and shook her hand. 

“That sounds like exactly what I need. You have been a great help.” 

Folding up his drawings and taking his leave, he moved toward the library entrance, covering the ground very quickly with his long legs, surprisingly spry for an old gentleman. The Shadow followed, but by the time he reached the entrance, Carrick was nowhere to be seen. A flash of paleness caught his eye, but it proved to be a riderless horse cantering up the road toward the bridle paths of Central Park. An issue for the local traffic cop, assuming its rider wasn’t in pursuit. 

_I’m seeking a pale human with a shaggy mane, not a horse,_ he thought with a smile.

Looking to his right, he raised his hand and a taxicab drove up at once. Moe Shrevenitz, one of his agents, opened the door for him.

“Where to, boss?”

“Circle the block,” came the quiet response. “I wish to see if my visitor is still in the vicinity.”

“Sure.” Shrevvie pulled the cab away from the curb and did as bidden, driving around the large city block at a steady pace.

“What did he look like?” asked Shrevvie.

“Elderly, tall, white hair. Quite long and unkempt, but a bit neater than Einstein.” 

“Dresses very old-fashioned,” added Cranston, as an afterthought.

“Huh,” said the cabbie. “You think he’d stand out from the crowd.” 

He turned onto 57th Street. 

“Don’t see anyone meeting that description, though.”

“Nor I.” Cranston uttered a soft laugh. “Our mystery deepens.”

“You’d think an old guy like that couldn’t move too fast. He’d have to be only a couple’a blocks from the library, at the most.”

“Unless he moves like a shadow,” said Cranston, his voice dropping into the tones of his other self.


	3. Guest Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which The Shadow and the professor do a little star-gazing and our hero discovers that just because someone leaves the door open doesn't mean the room is unguarded.

The Shadow eventually found his quarry where he had surmised, talking to an astronomer in front of the Fuertes Observatory[1] on the campus of Cornell University, a nearly four-hour drive from the city. The two men had no thought that they were being followed into their building by a bit of living darkness.

“This is the Irving Porter Church telescope,” said the astronomer, escorting Carrick into the large dome of the observatory. One small lamp burned on a desk, and another tiny light glowed partway up the body of the telescope, leaving most of the interior in gloom. “It was started in 1920, with the glass lenses being ground by Brashear and Company, and the equatorial mounting and dedication was completed in 1922.”

“Quite a marvelous piece of scientific instrumentation, Doctor Brown,” said Carrick, looking upward at the device, which had been covered in a layer of deep cobalt blue paint. The sun had set and the dome had been opened to permit access to the night sky. On a chair mounted halfway up the telescope, an astronomy student was busily adjusting various gears and levers to bring it into alignment with their preferred field of view.

“Just the thing to assist with your most interesting theory, Professor,” said Doctor Brown. 

He moved to the small table where Carrick’s tracings of the various star maps lay open, with the help of some coffee cups serving double duty as paperweights.

“Some scholars in the United States have expressed doubts about the accuracy of the ancient Chinese star maps,” said Carrick. “I’m very pleased that is not the case here. The astronomers of the old dynasties made meticulous records and noted the occurrence of ‘guest stars’ or supernovae and their eventual fading from the heavens.”

Doctor Brown snorted. “And some people in this country still believe the Earth is flat. Science says otherwise.”

“Doctor, the telescope is ready for fine adjustment,” said the student from his perch.

“Thank you. Let’s see what we can see,” said Doctor Brown. Snapping off the lights and moving to the main lens, he made a few adjustments. “Almost… there!” 

He beckoned to Carrick, who came to his side. 

“The area you wish to check is now centered in the field of view. Take a look.”

Carrick did as bidden, peering through the telescope for some time. 

“It as I thought. The star is gone, Doctor Brown. In its place I see a nebula where once a blue giant star burned. Too faint for the human eye to discern without a telescope.” 

Removing his journal from his vest, he made a careful sketch and added some notes. 

“On my next trip to New York City I will seek for maps that step through the centuries, and see if I cannot determine an approximate date for the supernova.”

Doctor Brown was busily making his own notes as Carrick returned the telescope’s eyepiece to him. 

“That would be most helpful, to narrow down the probable time of the event. We’ll put it down to your credit with a range of dates from 1100 to 1925 for now, and make enquiries to see if anyone else in the community observed or recorded the phenomena. I suspect though, from the scattering of the nebula, that it happened only some decades ago, perhaps not even as long as a century or more.”

“I have the same suspicions, but I will not be sure until I gather more data.” Carrick smiled at Doctor Brown. “Please put yourself, your student, and your university down as discoverers, however. I would never have proven my theory correct without you and your telescope.” 

“You’re too generous,” said Doctor Brown, quite surprised, but very pleased. “If you will give me your address, I will arrange to have photographs taken and will send you a set of prints, if you wish to author a paper about your process of deduction and the historical research.”

“Thank you. That would be good. Here we are.” 

Carrick found a bit of paper and wrote on it quickly. 

“When I am in the area, I stay with a gentleman named Lamont Cranston in New Jersey, just across the river from New York City. If you send anything to me, use his address and send it ‘care of’ and it will reach me eventually.” 

The two professors shook hands warmly and Carrick departed the building, leaving Doctor Brown to turn his attention to the new visitors who had drifted in. 

The Shadow watched from cover as Carrick tucked his various maps and notes into his vest and walked out some distance from the observatory, pausing now and then to look up at the sky. A small grove of trees marked the edge of this part of campus, and Carrick left the walkway and disappeared into the darker gloom under their boughs. 

The Shadow pursued him as quickly as he could, but as before outside the library in the city, Carrick vanished as thoroughly as could the Shadow himself. Search as he might, the professor was gone and the only noise in the distance was the sound of a horse whinnying to its companions in a distant pasture.

\---

Depending upon one’s point of view, it was either very late or very early by the time the Shadow returned to Lamont Cranston’s mansion. Carrick was already in bed and asleep, as were all of the household staff, so there was nobody awake to query about the time at which the professor had returned from his jaunt to Ithaca. Standing outside Carrick’s bedroom, he placed a hand on the door, stilled himself, and reached for the professor’s mind. The opal girasol on his finger glowed softly purple-red as he concentrated. 

To his surprise, the professor had left his mind entirely unguarded, and he was able to enter it easily. What he encountered however, was outside his experience. The elder sages with whom he had studied years ago taught meditation as a way of centering oneself, quelling the ego, and deepening awareness. On the occasions when he had been encouraged to touch the minds of the masters, there had been a disorienting sensation of looking down into a deep well, silent and calm. 

In the case of Carrick’s mind, there was no deep well. Instead, he found himself floating in the vastness of space itself, with the blue shine of the Earth far behind him, and all around the curving arm of the Milky Way, with every detail clear and sparkling-sharp. He was suddenly reminded that the Milky Way was actually a galaxy, and the Earth and her Sun were located far off to one edge of that massive, slowly rotating spiral of countless stars. And beyond that galaxy, more galaxies, likewise grandly turning in the slow beat of time. And beyond those, still more. 

With an effort the Shadow tore himself free from that endless vista and found himself back in his own body, leaning against the wall beside Carrick’s bedroom. As he pulled himself together, he thought with a wry smile, _well, you did ask for that, didn’t you?_ Massaging his temples, he went to his own room and sat down on the bed, feeling a bit lightheaded. _Was that simply a psychic defense meant to discipline intruders or is that… part of his mind?_ He shot a sharp glance at the chamber in which Carrick slept.

_I will have to wait until morning to ask. So many mysteries and hardly a clue that fits any pattern I know._ His mind wanted to worry at the problem like a dog with a new bone, but setting his own self in order, he soon fell into sleep.

\---

“The creations of humans are quite wonderful. You have great strength and heart.” The speaker was something that looked very much like a tall white horse. It had generous feathering on its legs like a draft animal, but its form was gracile. An odd sliver of light hovered above the animal’s broad forehead, moving as he moved. It was in mid-discussion with a woman of middle years. She was dressed in a beautiful array of animal skins and feathers. In one hand she carried a long staff, and was seated on a large rounded stone, the hard surface of which was cushioned by yet more skins and hides. They were on a heath atop a low hill, with a sky of lowering clouds on the horizon. Neither of them were aware of his presence; it was if he were watching a film of some event long past.

“Our works must endure, to show the gods and goddesses we are worthy of their regard,” said the woman. She gestured toward the horizon.

Neither of them were speaking English, yet he understood them clearly. Nor did it seem remarkable that they were conversing in the first place.

“But the buildings and monuments of humankind, like humans themselves, are mortal and subject to the slow wear of time,” said the horse. “Even the greatest constructions crumble in the wind, rain, and snow.”

The woman looked pensive, fidgeting with her staff. 

“You are very old, and yet age does not weigh you down. My mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother all knew you, and yet here you are, unchanged.”

“Well, I am not mortal, after all,” said the horse. He did not say it as if he were bragging, only stating a fact.

The woman was pleased by his answer. 

“Then my course is clear. To gain the favor of the goddess, I will offer to her a living sacrifice. Something that will far outlast the fragile buildings of men.” 

She raised her staff and brilliant green light surged from it to envelope the horse, who reared up, startled by the sudden flare of energy. Its form glowed and shrank in size. When the light faded, a tall human shape stood in its place, a shape that immediately collapsed as if it had no idea how to stand upright.

“Something immortal,” said the woman with a merry laugh.

\---

The Shadow sat bolt upright in bed, prepared to fight off what he felt was an imminent attack, only to find the sun shining in the windows of the bedroom and no enemy in sight. The quiet heath and lonely landscape of his dream was gone. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“That was interesting, indeed,” he said softly.

[1] The telescope is amazing <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fuertes_Observatory>.


	4. Terra Incognita

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shadow finally discovers what Carrick does in his spare time. The knowledge doesn't help one bit, but only piles up the mysteries. The real Lamont Cranston returns to his New Jersey home to find his doppelganger waiting with a stack of questions.

Carrick was at the table in the morning room having his breakfast when Cranston arrived. He sat with his notes and drawings laid out around him, busily writing further notes in his journal. From his position, Cranston could see a new drawing of what looked like a jagged mountain range. 

“Good morning to you,” said Carrick, as cheerful as ever.

“Did you sleep well?” asked Cranston. 

To his eyes Carrick looked somewhat younger, as if the apparent age he had worn on his face at their first meeting had been a mask he’d been peeling away, layer by layer, over the night.

 _That is not a clever disguise or makeup, but something he does – or does not – affects how I see him_. Cranston suppressed a scowl. _I know there is nothing wrong with my vision_.

“Yes. Running out to Ithaca and back was very refreshing, and the astronomers at the observatory were willing to find the Well constellation. They turned their telescope on it so I could make the observations I needed.” 

Carrick tapped his latest sketch. 

“I believe sometime within the last two centuries, our missing star exploded as a supernova, scattering its elements to the interstellar medium and forming a nebula – an expanding cloud of gas and dust. 

“The Chinese had a name for them, _kèxīng,_ or ‘guest star’. One that appeared, shone brightly for a time, and then faded away. They did not know the cause, but believing such transient stars were a portent of great events, they kept excellent records when they noticed them.”

“Do you know Clark Savage Junior?” Cranston’s keen expression was unnoticed by the professor.

“Yes. Such an interesting young man, and very busy. He and his friends are always building and inventing machines and tools, many of which make no sense to me at all.” Carrick laughed. “If you ever visit his office in the Empire State Building, beware. Their private elevator moves like a rocket, which is … disconcerting.” He looked thoughtful. “It would be nice if they would post a notice in that contraption.”

 _Well, that explains his fast travel. He must have persuaded Savage or one of his friends to fly him to and from the observatory_.

“It would be nicer still if they were more careful with their inventions. I’ve known more than one criminal who was ‘inspired’ by them to cause mayhem, before being brought to justice.”

“Indeed, a tool is a neutral thing. All depends on the intention of the user.” 

Carrick closed the journal and gathered up his notes. 

“Eventually, I will seek for more star maps, perhaps in Chinatown from the learned elders there, so I can narrow down the time when the star in the Well went nova. But for now, I have enough information to travel to the Black Hills and tune the _axis mundi_ there.”

Cranston set down his fork, forgetting the egg on the plate Richards had brought to him a minute earlier. 

“Did I just hear you correctly?” he asked. “You intend to _tune a world axis_?”

“Yes. That is my work and has been for a very long time. To tune the various _axes_ around the planet, is the reason I travel the globe at intervals. There are many, and some are transient, but the fixed ones I attend to as often as required.” Carrick ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “The description is inadequate in modern English. My apologies.”

“You are not speaking about the axis of planetary rotation?”

“No. That is singular and relatively fixed over the eons. An _axis mundi_ comes about by the work of hearts and spirits. Some of the earliest are at the Stonehenge, Eamhain Mhacha, an ash tree in Norway, the Standing Stones near Orkney, Mount Olympus, Mount Meru, and the great pyramids.”

Carrick pointed to the west. 

“In this land, you can find a very strong one in the Black Hills of Dakota, which is my destination tomorrow. It has been long neglected and I fear with the loss of that star, it was mistuned the last time I or anyone else attended to it.”

Cranston sat in silence for a full five minutes with the entire bizarre notion of tuning something that patently did not exist. Finally he spoke, trying, but not quite succeeding in keeping the disbelief from his voice.

“All that work and research to determine the fate of a distant nameless star was for this tuning? I can’t imagine anything so insignificant to our world would affect anything here.”

“For one who marks the fall of the sparrow, such things do matter.” Carrick’s voice was very quiet but his eyes were suddenly filled with light. 

Cranston had the unnerving sensation that the old professor was looking straight through him, piercing every mask and façade he’d built around himself. It was the most uncomfortable scrutiny he’d experienced in a very long time, but he resisted the instinct to jump away or attack. 

Carrick awoke to the fact he was causing discomfort. He turned his face to one side. 

“Excuse me. My work is to help, not harm.” He rose to his feet, tucking the various maps into his pockets. “To the west I must go, and attend to my duties. I will return when they are completed.”

The professor proved to be as good as his word. He was gone within the hour, and when Cranston took his car into the city, he discovered Stanley had not been asked to drive the man anywhere. After receiving this information, he smiled thinly. 

_Almost as difficult to track as I am, and that is most unusual for an academic_.

\---

Two weeks later the real Lamont Cranston returned to his home. An hour after his arrival a visitor, one Henry Arnaud, another guise of the Shadow, arrived. Arnaud was grey-haired, lean, and distinguished. The two men were retiring to confer with each other when Richards appeared with a telegram on a silver plate. Lamont plucked up the telegram and continued with Arnaud into his cozy study, where he closed the door. Glancing at the telegram, he opened it quickly and smiled. 

“Professor Carrick reports success in South Dakota. He is now off to Canada to attend to some business in the Yukon Territory, and expects to return in another month, weather permitting.”

“Do you know what he was doing – is supposedly doing – on these trips of his?” asked Arnaud. 

Lamont nodded. “Tuning the _axes mundi_ , of course. That’s the main work he performs right now, besides teaching.”

“You believe that?” Arnaud stared at Lamont for a moment as if he’d lost his mind.

Lamont shrugged. “I do. I have my reasons.” He looked out one of the windows where the sun was beginning to set behind layers of mauve clouds.

“Carrick claims he saved your life in Africa ten years ago,” said Arnaud into the silence.

“Did he describe how?” asked Lamont.

“He said he drove off a pack of hyenas you had encountered and then cared for your wounds.”

Lamont paced away toward the window, watching the sunset. Finally, he turned to face Arnaud.

“The Professor was too diplomatic,” he said ruefully. “I was younger and much more foolhardy. While I had my eyes on a prize gazelle, I failed to look where I was going and literally tripped over a dead one – a fresh kill with a group of ten spotted hyenas on it. They were highly unamused by my disrupting their meal.” He closed his eyes for a moment, his face pained. “Are you familiar with spotted hyenas?”

“Scavengers,” said Arnaud.

“Not so! You are thinking of the striped hyena; they run in packs and scavenge kills from leopards and lions. Dangerous enough, to be certain, in large groups. But the spotted ones hunt their own prey. To them, I was simply dessert after their dinner. They are bone-crushers. Almost by reflex I shot one, and then they were on me.”

“They bit you?”

Cranston uttered a short bark of laughter. 

“ _Biting_ is a poor description. They were tearing me to pieces.” 

Lamont rubbed his forehead with one hand. 

“They were so fast! And then he – Carrick – just showed up and bid them to leave. And they did – left me in the dirt with my limbs half torn off.” 

He paced around the small room, unable to be still as he recalled the event.

Arnaud stood up and went to the cabinet to pour Lamont a drink. He gave him the glass, poured one for himself, and waited while Lamont took a swallow. 

“And then?” Arnaud’s voice was quiet.

“He picked me up and carried me a short distance away and … healed me. I can’t even describe it, but I can still remember the light he produced and how the agony simply drained away. I passed out at some point and woke up in his tent in the bush. I needed new clothing, but I was already well enough to travel.” 

Lamont shook his head slowly and spread his hands. 

“I admit it sounds completely fantastic.”

“Was the entire experience real?” asked Arnaud. “An illusionist with great strength of will could…”

Without a word Lamont removed his outer jacket, then his vest, necktie, and fine white shirt, standing in his sleeveless undershirt. He held out his arms.

“What do you think?”

Arnaud moved to look at Lamont’s right arm. It bore a fine, ragged scar circling the arm above the elbow. A series of small pale marks could be discerned at the joint itself – spaced as a predator’s teeth would be. From the angle, Arnaud could tell they had gone straight into the bone. The left arm was similar, although the marks of rending fangs were higher up toward Lamont’s shoulder and were a set of separated bites belonging to two animals rather than one.

“Before you ask, I have the same on both legs,” said Cranston, peering over his shoulder at Arnaud, who had moved behind him.

“When Carrick described this, I surmised he saved your life by preventing infection, but these are fatal wounds, I can tell from the scarred traces as much as from your descriptions.” 

Arnaud completed his circuit and sat in a chair facing Cranston.

Cranston nodded. “Exactly so. If it hadn’t been for him, I’d have simply vanished into the Serengeti without a trace. Except perhaps the remains of my wristwatch in a pile of hyena scat.” His face grew grave. “Even assuming others had found me and managed to save my life, I would have been missing most of my limbs. Instead, I’m alive and not completely crippled.” 

“Do the scars hurt?”

“Not at all. That’s the amazing thing.” Lamont flexed his arms slowly. “I’ve a few other souvenirs of my misadventures over the years, and some of those remind me when the weather changes, but these do not.”

Arnaud considered Lamont’s words. 

“He is a healer of a sort I’ve never encountered before, although I’ve heard learned teachers in Tibet speak of such people.” He frowned as he thought. “Such _tulkus_ or _bhikus **[1]**_ are often ascetic recluses, however, and do not typically wander the world.”

“Perhaps. Whatever he is, Professor Carrick has my gratitude forever. And like most professors, he left me with enough food for thought that I still think about it now and then.” Cranston smiled at Arnaud. “I no longer hunt for pleasure. Instead, I use more camera film than bullets, and only unlimber my rifle if the local villagers complain of man-eating lions or river mugger crocodiles.”

“That is quite a change,” said Arnaud, watching as Lamont pulled on his shirt. In his years of peripherally knowing the man, he had considered Lamont a dilettante and avid big game hunter who thought of others only superficially. 

“All life is change,” said Lamont, fastening his buttons. He smiled suddenly. “I think the Buddha said that, and I may begin to understand it, just a little.”

Arnaud took his own drink and settled into a high-backed chair, steepling his fingers under his chin as he contemplated this new set of data. 

“Will he work for me, I wonder?” he asked quietly.

[1] Bhikkus are Buddhist monks. Bhikkuni are nuns. A _tulku_ is the reincarnation of an enlightened being. <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tulku>


	5. Perseids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shadow's agents gather what information they can find about the old professor. The Shadow, meanwhile, enjoys a quiet evening watching the stars fall.

Over the next several weeks, information trickled in from the Shadow’s agents, but like most matters concerning Professor Carrick, the data were sparse and sometimes contradictory. Within his sanctum in the city, the Shadow culled through what he had received. The results from Rutledge Mann’s methodical enquiries lay on his desk, a neat stack of very old newspapers, articles, and one report. The brief report contained the results of Mann’s investigations into the strange script in Carrick’s journal. 

The closest analog my research could turn up was that of the _Litterae ignotae **[1]**_ alphabet developed by Hildegard von Bingen, approximately 1140 AD. Various researchers at the city library could not translate the language used, however. If the language were known, the experts aver the scripts would then be relatively simple to decode. Currently they say the language is not Latin or Latin-based. – R. Mann.

The Shadow moved that report to one side and picked up the stack of newspapers. One paper, the _Carson City Morning Appeal_ had a date of 1864 on the masthead. Mann had marked the page of interest with a slip of paper. Working carefully with the old newsprint, the Shadow turned the pages until he found the article. 

**_Baby and Mother Saved!_** Shouted the headline. The Shadow read on. 

Travelling doctor Carrack O’Hara cured local woman Mrs. Maye Reldon of rattlesnake bite after she disturbed the creature while gardening. Doctor O’Hara claimed the bite “was minor” and stayed to deliver a healthy girl. Mrs. Reldon says the rattler was “longer than ten feet” and considers herself lucky to be alive. She suffered no ill effects from her adventure. The old doctor would take no payment for his care beyond a meal served by the grateful family.

The Shadow tapped the name in the article. “Reldon,” he said softly. Myra Reldon had been an agent of his for several years now; a woman who could speak the Chinese language fluently and pass unnoticed within the closed world of Chinatown. Her father had been a man from the western states. Myra herself had once been a federal agent. He made a few notes as he paged through the rest of the clippings. It was thin fare. A paper on the periodic dimming and brightening of the star Betelgeuse, dated 1892, an 1859 monograph on growing native herbs for healing, and another brief article about a Professor Garrick lecturing on the technology of the Vikings at MIT in 1882. 

“With such poor variations on names, you are hardly a professional spy, Professor,” the Shadow said. “And assuming you were in your early 30’s when you took medical training, you would be well over 100 years old now.” He shook his head. “That cannot be correct. And yet.” Touching a switch on the wall he spoke quietly to Burbank. “Contact agent Reldon, I believe she may have some information of interest.”

\---

A day later the Shadow looked at a report relayed to him from Myra Reldon. 

In answer to your query, the Reldons in the Carson City newspaper article are my father’s family. The Mrs. Reldon in the story was my great-grandmother, who is still alive at age 102. The article had the gist of the story, but lacked certain details known to us children. The article says the doctor was “old”, but my great-grandmother said that even though his hair was white, his face was young. She let the journalist think the snake bite was minor – it was not. The snake was actually a young rattler, which is when they are most venomous. The doctor completely neutralized a fatal dose in that bite. My great-grandmother could not tell us how the doctor managed it. She did say that the doctor could not stay, but left the following morning. Our family never saw him again.

Within the Shadow’s sanctum, the blue light illuminating that hidden office snapped off and a low laugh whispered though the chamber, followed by utter silence.

\---

The weeks turned onward and the warmth of June gave way to the humid heat of an east coast July. The Shadow returned to Cranston’s estate one Friday evening not long after sunset to find a bustle of activity outside. Except for the few maids who had rooms in the upper floor of the house, the senior staff such as Richards and Stanley lived in what had been the carriage house behind the manor. That building had been divided into several large apartments. It was located behind the bulk of the main house and a distance down the gentle hill from the mansion, which occupied the high point in the landscape.

On that hill, Stanley, Richards, and their families were setting up a pair of card tables, and the children were dragging up lawn chairs. Helping to shuttle items from the carriage house was the distinctive figure of Professor Carrick. As he set a bundle of linens on one of the tables, he noticed Cranston at the top of the hill and waved.

“Halloo! Come down and join us!”

A little girl was running excitedly about with a rolled up blanket in her arms.

“We’re going to watch the stars fall!” she yelled in his general direction.

Cranston approached the little group to avoid having to shout across the distance. He spoke once he was in range.

“I would not want to intrude on your evening.” He looked up. The indigo sky was almost clear and the haze of the hot summer air had lifted somewhat with the setting of the sun. A cooling breeze was sending its first tendrils up the hill.

“Be welcome, Boss,” said Stanley. “We’ve got lemonade, sandwiches, and enough cookies for the kids, a small army, and us.”

He smiled at his wife, who was setting out the mentioned snacks. 

“The ladies nixed anything stronger until after the kids go to bed.”

“Mmhm,” said his wife. “You don’t want to overdo and fall asleep out here in the grass. Come the morning, you’d find yourself alone with the slugs.”

“Ugh!” Richards’ wife seconded the sentiment with a shudder. 

Richards’ sons were probably 11 and 12 in age, and had been drafted to shuttle food and drink from the house. Once they were done with that chore, they galloped off over the hill like small mustangs. Stanley’s little girl looked to be about five years old and was carefully helping to set the tables.

Carrick, with the ‘help’ of the tiniest child, was pulling the large (and probably old) blanket into a broad rectangle, arranged so that when he lay down in the middle, his head was uphill. He patted the blanket.

“Here you go, children, come and help me watch for shooting stars.”

The girls joined him, but the boys were still too full of energy, and continued to careen around the hilltop.

Cranston accepted a glass of lemonade with a polite “thank you” and settled himself into an unclaimed lawn chair near Carrick and his small audience. The girls flopped back onto the blanket and looked up at the night sky. The rest of the adults all found chairs and joined the younger children in watching. 

“There!” cried the older girl, pointing skyward as a streak of silver zipped across the heavens. The littlest child clapped her small hands.

“What!? Did you see one already?” One of the boys shouted from somewhere uphill. 

“Yes,” called Carrick. 

The boys joined them a moment later, out of breath. 

“Where?”

“It went there.” Carrick pointed. “But they are fast and only last a moment. You have to sit and wait or you will miss them.”

“Again!” cried Stanley’s daughter. Pointing on the instant to another bright line.

“More!” The three year old laughed in delight as another streak shot by hard on the heels of the first.

“No fair!” The younger boy was aggrieved.

“Lay down on the blanket and be still,” said Richard’s wife in a firm voice. “Then you’ll see them. You won’t see anything if you just run around.”

Muttering, the boys plopped themselves down on either side of the girls, but their annoyance was soon forgotten as first one, then another, meteor shot by overhead. 

“We should see about one every minute,” said Carrick. “Sometimes more. This is a good night for them.”

“They always fall like this every night?” asked the eldest.

“Not as frequently, but yes. And during the day as well. It’s just that we can’t see them easily when the sun is up.”

“These are the summer Perseids, aren’t they?” asked Cranston quietly.

“They are.” Carrick pointed toward the constellation. “From our point of view, they appear to come from Perseus.”

“Are they really falling stars?” asked one of the boys.

“No, they are pieces of a meteor that passed by some time ago,” said Cranston.

“Must be lots of pieces,” he replied. “There’s another.”

“What happens to them?” asked Stanley’s daughter.

“They burn up as they hit the air around our Earth,” Carrick said. “These are too small to actually fall all the way to the ground. They are gone, burned away, before that can happen.”

“Too bad,” said one of the boys. “I’d love to have a meteorite. My teacher says there was a really big one that hit Arizona and left a HUGE hole in the ground. He showed us a little piece of it – it looked like melted iron.”

“That large one was mostly iron, if I recall correctly,” said Cranston. “It burst into many pieces when it struck the Earth.”

Carefully, he adjusted his position in the lawn chair to give his left arm better support. Two weeks earlier he had been in the Midwest to foil the schemes of a gang of murderous counterfeiters,[2] and had been shot through the shoulder by one of the conspirators. The wound had been severe enough it had put his life at risk multiple times until he was able to get medical aid. While it was now healing, it still was far from mended, and pointedly reminded him of that fact whenever he leaned on it without thinking. 

Achy arm or not, it was peaceful to be sitting under the stars, watching the occasional meteor trace its fiery line across the sky, and listening to the chatter of children and the quiet murmur of the adults. No one had any nefarious plans beyond skipping the sandwiches and grabbing another cookie from the plate on the table. The summer air was warm, but the evening breeze kept it from being oppressively hot.

\---

After several pleasant hours, the adults began to gather up the children, all of whom had fallen asleep. Carrick helped to shuttle one of the boys into the house, and after likewise helping to move the dishes, table linens, and blanket inside, accompanied Cranston up the hill to the mansion. They walked in silence, until they traded the natural starlight for the soft glow of the mansion’s electric lights.

“You are in pain,” Carrick said as they stood alone in Cranston’s study. His pale hair formed an irregular frame for his face. Lying on his back watching the stars had done nothing to restore what little order it had, and it resembled the unkempt mane of a wild horse.

“A little, yes,” Cranston admitted. He flexed his left arm slowly. “I had a bit of trouble with some criminals while I was away two weeks ago, and was shot for my efforts.” He made a wry expression as the movement pulled at the healing tissue. “It would help if I remembered not to over-use it for a few days.”

“Why, if I may ask, were you fighting criminals armed with pistols?” asked Carrick, his expression concerned at the thought.

“You have your work, Professor, and I have mine.”

“Ah, I see.” Carrick peered at him from under the overhang of his forelock. “You are a knight errant and have bound yourself to a noble quest.”

Cranston laughed at the image that statement invoked, drawn from the long-ago pages of _The Boy’s King Arthur_. 

“I’ve neither armor nor charger.” He smiled wistfully at a following thought. “And if there is a grail, it is far beyond my reach.”

“It matters not. What matters is that you have taken on a _geas_ ,” said Carrick.

“ _Geas_?” asked Cranston. “That is a Gaelic term.”

“It is. It can be a vow, curse, or gift, depending upon one’s point of view. Many heroes of the ancient days bore a _geas_. Observing it brings power.”

“And breaking it?”

“Brings death,” Carrick replied at once. “Such is the price for the gift. But you know that already.” He looked at Cranston calmly. “Could you break the oath you have laid upon your heart?”

“No.” He touched his shoulder, thinking of the battle he had recently fought and won against long odds. “Not on my life.”

“May I heal your wound?” Carrick asked. “I can do little about the quest you have taken, but I can help you sally forth sound in body.”

Cranston’s initial thought was to politely refuse. A _gunshot is trivial. Hardly in the same league as a fatal snakebite or being savaged by hyenas._ But his curiosity got the better of him and he found himself saying; 

“Yes, if you can.”

Carrick smiled at his reply. 

“I can. Now that you have given me permission to do so.”

He gestured to a pair of chairs in the study – the very ones in which the Shadow and the real Cranston had discussed Cranston’s African misadventure. 

“Please sit. This does not involve much activity.”

“What, no magical gestures?”

“Unnecessary,” replied Carrick. “A fact which has disappointed many people over the years, who would have preferred such a display.” 

He reached out his left hand and took Cranston’s left hand gently.

“This is not magic, but something deeper. A return to the heart of things.”

He held his free hand out with the palm cupped a little and tipped his head forward as if concentrating. Cranston could see the eyes under those half-closed lids brighten, and into that open palm light collected as if he had perfected some technique for catching moon- or starlight in liquid form. Cranston felt a tingle in his hand, as if the contact with Carrick were generating a mild electrical field. Carrick lifted his little handful of light, and bringing it to Cranston’s shoulder, tipped the contents onto him as if he were pouring out water over his injured shoulder and arm.

Except that it wasn’t water – the light-fluid flowed through the fabric of his clothing and straight into his body. It was warm, and spread its warmth quickly through the half-healed wound, following the bullet’s path from back to front and then spilled down inside his left arm and overflowed into his heart. For a moment, reality rippled, and he saw again the depths of space, with the Earth a shining blue gem far below, and felt the living rhythm of that world as it rolled through the darkness. 

_It’s all alive, every bit of it_. 

“Breathe,” said Carrick’s voice quietly. “You do not want to sojourn off without your mortal body at this time.”

The room in which he sat snapped back into focus. Cranston took a short gasp of breath, then began to breathe more normally. Carrick looked pleased at this, and released his grip. 

“What – was – that?” Cranston scrubbed his hands over his face, then realized he was using his left arm as normal, without a bit of pain. He stretched the limb carefully, then with greater confidence. “You _did_ heal it.”

“Which?” Carrick sat back in his chair. “The healing or the true sight?” Before Cranston could decide which item to pounce on first, the professor added, “Actually, they are of the same kind, you know. Just like the tuning I perform elsewhere.”

“What?” Cranston stared at the man, whose face, now that he focused on it closely, was entirely youthful and without a trace of age. He frowned at that. _An illusion? But which was the illusion, the mask of age or youth? Is this what Mae Reldon saw?_

“I am not one of your mythical _axes mundi_ ,” he said at last. He was torn between pleasure at being entirely healed and annoyance that Carrick spoke in such elliptical phrases. 

“You are hardly mythical, my friend, and you most certainly have an _axis mundi_. Everyone carries their own in the center of their being, and if I am given the ability to tune the larger ones, surely I can put the smaller ones back into balance, taking into account our missing star in the Well.” 

Rising from his seat, Carrick gave him a polite bow.

“Good night, rest well.”

He left the study then, leaving the Shadow to ponder the pieces of the mystery presented.

[1] Latin for “unknown letters”. This one was created by Hildegard von Bingen for her mystical writings. <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lingua_Ignota>

[2] See _The Five Chameleons_ for the full adventure. <https://archive.org/details/the_shadow_32.11.01/mode/2up>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've learned though experience you don't just lie in the grass at night to watch the stars without a blanket or something underneath because you really will end up with slugs on you.


	6. The Work at Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shadow has found a fine new agent to recruit. Only one minor problem, no one told the would-be agent about this. The negotiations with his new recruit unravel rather rapidly. "Where am I going and why am I in this handbasket?"

Above the bureau in Cranston’s bedroom sat a fine mirror, set at the right height for a tall man. In front of that mirror the Shadow removed Cranston’s jacket, then the rest of the various layers covering his upper body. The undershirt held several dried dark stains where he had managed to pop open the surface of his wound during the day’s activities. Pulling off that last article of clothing, he turned his back to the mirror and looked over his shoulder. The partly-healed entrance wound was gone. 

In its place was a small, pale mark a half-inch across, bearing a tracery of fine lines radiating out from its center like a rayed star. He turned around to inspect the exit wound between shoulder and chest, which had been larger and uglier, only to find the same small remnant, with the rest of the skin and muscle quite sound and whole.

“K _èxīng_ ,” he said without thinking. The hairs on his forearms stirred and he rubbed at them. The action helped warm his arms, but did nothing to ease the cool chill down his spine when he thought about what had been done to perform this act of healing. 

_What energy does it take? What would people say if they knew someone with this ability walked the world?_ His mind immediately jumped to the statement in Myra Reldon’s report. _Your great-grandmother sensed the danger and withheld what she knew from the reporter_. 

Pulling on a clean nightshirt, he paced across the room, turning off the lights, and readied for bed. Stretched out at last in the dark he reviewed all the pieces of the puzzle one more time. 

Old, yet not old. Over 100. _At least_.

Disappears as I do. Illusion, or simply the art of _being still_?

Healer. Definitely _not_ an illusion.

Fantastical storyteller or something else entirely?

Cranston’s bedroom being on the second floor, the window offered a good view of the sky, with the waxing moon setting behind the house at this very early hour in the morning. A few high clouds blurred some of the stars, but others were bright and clear. A large meteor blazed across his field of view, burning in brilliant bluish-green, and shedding bits of fiery matter in its tail as it raced across the night sky. 

_That’s a nice one; too bad the children missed it. Looks almost large enough to have fragments strike the Earth_. 

He fell asleep on the calculations of trajectory and probable impact area.

\---

“You need to be more careful, Professor.” Cranston spoke without preamble as he approached the table in the morning room where Carrick sat with coffee and toast. He carried a folded mingled mass of black and red cloth over one arm and a wide-brimmed black hat in his right hand. 

“Careful? In what way?” Carrick replied. He looked toward the hallway leading to the kitchens, but Richards was nowhere in sight, nor were any of the rest of the staff. He smiled at Cranston as he drew out a chair and sat nearby. 

Cranston placed his black apparel over the arm of his chair as he sat. Carrick did not spare it a second glance.

“I’m not the one putting myself in harm’s way,” said Carrick.

“If you haven’t yet, you will find harm coming to you.” Cranston stared sharply at the professor, his eyes filled with steely light. “You have made little effort to disguise the fact you are over one hundred years old and yet look as if you were in your early twenties. People will notice, as I have noticed, and with the technology of communication improving, word of your strange longevity may well outpace your ability to avoid becoming a focal point of attention.” 

“That has happened before,” Carrick admitted, looking chagrined. “I am a creature of instinct, and that instinct is to give aid.”

“What happened the last time?” Cranston watched Carrick closely, but the man betrayed no signs of unease at the question, he simply closed his eyes, and nodded some seconds later as he retrieved the memory.

“In England, I healed a yeoman in a small village near Nottingham and I received his word he would tell no one. He then ran straight to an agent in the pay of Queen Elizabeth’s adviser and astrologer, John Dee. The astrologer was told the truth of my capabilities and alas, rather than turn that knowledge to good, became a great enemy. Convinced that I carried a philosopher’s stone and could bestow eternal life, which I cannot do, his agents harried me so strongly I was forced to leave the British Isles altogether. I came to dwell in the land of Ezochi[1] on the other side of the Earth, for well over a century, until the tide of time removed those whose thoughts had become corrupt.”

Cranston poured himself a cup of coffee and sipped at it while Carrick related his story, processing the fantastic claim.

“ _The_ Queen Elizabeth? The daughter of King Henry the Eighth?”

“Yes.”

“I knew you had to be over one hundred years of age, but!” Cranston stared at the professor’s youthful face, trying to reconcile his outward appearance with the passage of centuries. “That would put you at 400 years.” He thought a moment and added in a quiet tone. “No wonder the astrologer was so keen to acquire your secrets. That was the era of alchemy and what was thought of as ‘magic’.”

Carrick shook his head. 

“For what I do, there is no magic. This is simply how I was made.” He held out his hands. “An innate capability.”

“Yes, but in their ignorance they would have torn you to pieces in search of whatever knowledge you possessed – or what they fancied you possessed. Like the golden goose in the fable.” He paused for a moment then added the next logical question.

“Your healing of someone does not reverse the aging process?”

“Not really. It… mends… whatever damage there is, but humans move through time and age at their normal pace afterward, as far as I can tell. I haven’t made a deep study of it, to be sure.” Carrick looked at Cranston thoughtfully. “I do not experience or note the passage of time as well as a human. It has only been recently, as I count time, that I was forced to pay more attention to it, for my own safety.”

“You realize you are saying you are not human?” Cranston leaned forward a bit toward Carrick. _There it is_ , he thought, _the answer to one mystery_. He smiled to himself. _One mystery solved and it only spawns more_. _I do need him to work for me._

“Of course!” The professor pointed at his nose. “I’m another species entirely and have always been so.” 

Cranston recalled his dream of watching a white horse being turned into a human. 

“I had a vision or dream of you weeks ago, shortly after we first met. I saw you, when you were gifted with that human form. I did not understand the context of the events, but in light of the new information you have given me, it now makes sense.”

“ _Gifted_!” Carrick laughed. “I certainly did not think it a gift at the time.” He gestured toward Cranston. “You are gifted in your own right, if you shared that fragment of my deep past.” He seemed untroubled by Cranston’s ability to do so. “The Earthspeaker was a mortal of great power and her ‘gift’, as you call it, has been with me ever since.”

“What is the cost of the healing you perform?” Cranston asked. 

The sudden change of subject made the professor pause and gather his thoughts again before answering.

“Healing requires energy, which I supply. After a point, there is a recharge time required for such a thing, depending on the severity of the wound or illness,” Carrick said. “The closest analog I can find is the energy required for human love-making.”

Cranston grabbed a napkin as he tried to cope with having snorted a mouthful of coffee into his sinuses. When he could finally form words he said around a cough;

“I suspected you cannot heal everyone on the entire planet.”

Carrick nodded at his statement.

“Exactly. Human beings must care for each other. That is their work, and not mine. If they cannot learn such a basic kindness, what hope is there for humanity at large on this created world?”

“That is an answer that must be given in every generation,” Cranston replied. “For this one? You may need to ask me again in ten or twenty years, assuming I am still here.”

“I have every hope you will be,” said Carrick with a smile. 

Rising from the breakfast table, he offered Cranston a short bow. “I have an early evening ticket for the 20th Century Limited to Chicago, and then from there I will take another train to San Francisco. I must needs journey to South America for the next round of my work, before I return to Albion. You may not see me until next year or so, but I have every expectation that I will see you.” 

Turning away, he walked toward the entrance hall and the closet where his frock coat had been stored by Richards.

“Wait,” said the Shadow.

Carrick stopped short as the Shadow’s tone, and the unseen strength it carried halted him as effectively as if a wall had been dropped in his path.

Carrick looked over his shoulder at him, puzzled by the change in his voice. 

“Yes?”

“Stay. Assist with my… quest.” The Shadow’s voice was low and vibrant.

“I cannot.” Carrick continued his journey into the main entrance, retrieved his coat, and stepped out into the warm afternoon sunlight. 

The Shadow followed after, pulling on his dark cloak and hat. The professor walked across the drive, over the slight rise of the hill, then down the other side as if he were going to hike all the way to the distant river. Soon enough he had walked into the gardens, where the neatly-trimmed hedges of boxwood offered good concealment.

“Stop.” Again the Shadow’s voice brought the pale man to a halt.

Carrick turned fully about and took in the tall form of the one who had thus commanded him, shrouded in black cloak and hat. Even in the light of day he was difficult to see, as if the shadows cast by the shrubs had suddenly taken on a life of their own, coalesced, and stood up in man-shape. His eyes widened at the sight.

“You _are_ a proper knight-errant!” Carrick looked at him with open interest. “It has been long indeed since a sable knight arrayed himself for such a battle.”

“I am an enemy of evil. With the help of my agents I stand between those who scheme to sow death and the innocent who have the right to live without fear.” 

Carrick bowed at that statement. 

“And that is a noble undertaking.”

“Then join me. Swear obedience to me. I will use your talents to make this world a better place for those who do not walk the path of evil.” The Shadow put all of his persuasive strength and will into the words. 

Carrick took a step toward him as if he were being pulled forward by an invisible tether. Then he stopped. Tossing his head with a snort, he broke the spell. Carrick shook his head sharply, sending his pale mane flying. 

“I cannot. I regret, but I cannot give a vow as you ask. I can help, as much as I can, but you must understand I was made to bring balance, to heal, and not to commit harm. Even against those sleepwalking to their woe.”

“You will not fight evil beings?” The Shadow’s tone expressed his doubt.

“I did not say that. I cannot tolerate evil. When it stands in my path I fight until it is gone from my presence, as the minions of the alchemist discovered when I crushed them under my heels, but that is not why I am _here_.” 

He did not shout, but his words carried deep conviction. Carrick took a stride toward the Shadow, fearless of any danger. “I am here to restore the balance, not slay every benighted soul that stumbles across my way.” Now he was close enough to look into the Shadow’s brilliant eyes. 

“Understand that even among the wretched who have wandered dark roads for a long time, one or two will suddenly wake and return to the crossroads where they can take a new path.” Carrick’s eyes were filled with soft light of their own. “I cannot foresee the fates of all men, nor is it my work to sit in judgement. How would it be if I slew them all without mercy? What would become of those who would have awakened?” 

“You worry needlessly. Swear fealty. I will not misuse your talents.” Again the Shadow leaned on Carrick with both words and mind. The pale man’s mind was open, but remarkably resilient under pressure.

The professor squeezed his eyes shut and shook himself all over, backing away a pace. He lowered his head in a way that put the Shadow in mind of a ram displaying its horns.

“No.” Carrick opened his eyes and focused on what he could see of the Shadow’s face between the brim of his slouch hat and the upturned collar of his cloak. He exhaled a soft breath and was still for a time. A warm summer breeze stirred the leaves of the nearby trees and ruffled Carrick’s hair and the Shadow’s cloak. The Shadow did not move. 

“You do not intend to drop the matter, do you?”

“Your perceptions are excellent,” said the Shadow, smiling under his crimson scarf at Carrick. 

“This is so… human.” Carrick sounded and felt thoroughly frustrated. “We have a stalemate, then.” 

He stood in thought for a time. 

“Unless you wish to have a test of strength to see who will prevail,” said Carrick.

“I would rather not hurt you,” said the Shadow. “But if that is what is required to obtain a vow of obedience, I am willing to hazard a trial by combat.” 

“Such was good enough for Sir Wilfred[2], so it shall be for me,” Carrick replied.

The Shadow looked sternly at the professor. 

“Very well, we shall fight until one yields. If you win, you may go free. But when I win, you must swear obedience to me.”

Carrick laughed at his phrasing. “You have an abundance of confidence, young man.” 

“Have you any preferred weapons?” asked the Shadow.

“Only the natural ones I was given,” said Carrick.

“That would be safest,” the Shadow replied and heard in response a low, sharp snort. 

Placing a hand over his heart, Carrick said, “I accept your terms.” 

Walking over to a small crabapple tree, Carrick removed his coat, vest, and shirt, layering the clothing over a branch till he was stripped to the waist. He was inhumanly hairy, with long, fine silver-white hairs sprouting from his elbows and covering his chest. The Shadow was immediately reminded of the well-feathered legs of the white horse in his vision. Other than that difference, he was leanly muscled and not at all bulky.

Lifting himself on the balls of his feet, Carrick moved toward him, springy and loose, his face utterly calm.

“Have at ye!” Carrick uttered a guttural roar like a lion and sprang to attack, his hands curled into “tiger paw” fists. The Shadow had a moment to note the opening move as similar to a certain school of kuoshu before he became too busy defending and counterattacking to fully classify Carrick’s combat style[3].

The two men appeared to dance, circling around in the wide arena defined by the garden hedges and trees. Whirling forms of black and white, they turned, struck, blocked, and feinted. As they skirmished, the Shadow evaluated the strengths and weaknesses of his opponent.

Carrick fought with his own particular grace. Gone was any semblance of age in his face or smooth movements. He drove powerful blows with his fists, using them and his feet the same way a stallion used his hooves. He kicked and struck out, and when a punch passed by his face, he seized the Shadow’s wrist in his strong teeth and plowed forward with his body, turning as he did so, and dumping them both onto the ground with Carrick on top. The air was driven out of the Shadow’s lungs as Carrick released his wrist, rolled over the top of him, and sprang up immediately. 

The Shadow leaped up a moment later, recovering quickly. 

“Do you yield?” asked Carrick, his eyes bright.

“Not at all,” replied the Shadow. He smiled at Carrick. “This is just getting interesting.”

A moment later he plunged back into the fray, more than a little exhilarated by the challenge the professor was offering. It was rare indeed to find anyone outside of the Far East who could provide the level of unarmed combat sparring that he was getting from Carrick. As they fought, the part of his mind not given over to automatically responding to the moves of his opponent was puzzling over his fighting style, or lack thereof. He had seen over a hundred styles of martial arts, and was proficient in many of them, yet he remained unable to pinpoint the base school that provided the source of Carrick’s skills. Dodging a pair of double-fisted strikes, he could have sworn the scholar was using a variant of a tiger school form. 

As they fought on, he realized that while Carrick’s attacks were like those used by the masters of such arts, derived from the natural fighting styles of wild animals and birds, he was not using the much-refined forms, but the original animal-styles themselves. From what secret school had the old scholar learned to roar and strike like a tiger, kick like a wild horse, parry like the crane? In the heat of their combat the Shadow had no time to ask, but his agile mind picked at the mystery as he fought to subdue his opponent.

Most hand-to-hand combat encounters are over quickly. They consume the combatants’ energies rapidly and do not last beyond minutes. The Shadow and Carrick fought for over ten minutes with no clear victor. The grass was trampled down over a circular area and the afternoon sun had moved a bit lower toward the horizon, and still they fought. 

Had someone been keeping score, Carrick would have been deemed the loser of the bout. Despite much verve and ability, he had absorbed a number of punishing blows, several of which had knocked him down. Yet each time he fell, he rolled and sprang up again, eager to fight. If he felt any pain, he gave no sign of it.

The Shadow felt slow respect build in his mind. _Doesn’t he know he is beaten? He has far more courage and heart than I suspected. Most men would have surrendered to the inevitable by now, if only to spare themselves further pain._ His own ribs hurt from the strikes he had absorbed earlier in their combat, and he had given Carrick more than he had taken. The professor not only seemed to have no desire to give up, but was quite willing to absorb the punishment and fight until the sun set if necessary.

 _To defeat him, I may have to kill him_. The Shadow rejected that thought immediately. _That will not do. I want him for an agent, now more than ever_. He blocked a strike. _I need to incapacitate him… if I can render him unconscious, then his defeat will be a_ fait accompli _and he will be forced to yield_. 

_The other alternatives are less attractive: let him go free or trade blows with him until nightfall (and possibly through to the next day). In all honesty, given time, Carrick has a chance of defeating me; not by pure technique, but simply by enduring all pain and outlasting my own reserves of stamina_. He smiled tightly.

 _I’ve no wish to make such an experiment – I want a willing agent – and for Carrick to concede I must defeat him properly. There is no other way he will give up his autonomy_.

The decision made, he acted immediately. 

When Carrick made another lunging strike, he gave way and used Carrick’s momentum to turn him over a hip. For a moment the two fighters spun around each other. The movement ended with Carrick lying face-down on the grass with the Shadow atop his back. Gripping Carrick’s left arm, he encircled the professor’s throat with his right arm and applied careful pressure. The Shadow knew with his opponent’s arteries closed off, unconsciousness would come swiftly.

Half-throttled, Carrick bucked and writhed under the Shadow, but the pin was too efficient for him to gain enough purchase to break the grip. 

“Yield,” The Shadow whispered. Again he put the strength of his mind and will into the suggestion. Carrick’s mind, open as always, reeled toward the darkness that presaged a blackout, but within that dark space, the Shadow perceived two points of fiercely bright light and heard two clear voices joined as one. 

“ _STAND UP!_ ”

Carrick thrust out his arms, driving his hands into the turf and the soil beneath. His body arched, writhed, glowed, and changed. Within the squeezing vice of the Shadow’s right arm, Carrick’s neck thickened and lengthened, breaking his grip. The body he’d been pinning to the earth likewise grew and expanded. The left arm in his grasp lengthened dramatically, fingers fusing into a long forelimb ending in a pale cloven hoof. With a sound between a growl and a groan, Carrick rose to his feet, all four of them, and the Shadow found himself lying atop the body of a very tall white horse. He was gripping the animal about its neck, its long silvery mane spilling over his arms.

The horse – Carrick, for the mind was still the same – staggered a little at first, then catching his breath, moved with greater ease. Turning his equine head on his longer neck, Carrick looked at the Shadow as he lay sprawled over his back. The Shadow noticed several things; the fierce blue fire in the large eye, the tigerish teeth in the jaws of the half-opened mouth, and what seemed to be a blade of actinic light pointing skyward from Carrick’s broad forehead.

“Qilin[4]!” The Shadow could not help the exclamation. 

Before he could say anything more, the animal reared up with a wild cry that shook the leaves on the trees. He tightened his grip barely in time as Carrick shot away like a silver bullet down the hill, leaping the trimmed garden hedges easily. Carrick’s pale hide was covered with sleek hair like a racehorse and slippery as fine silk. The Shadow pulled himself upright and grabbed a double handful of mane. Riding astride the Qilin felt like sitting on a leaky electrical conduit and he gritted his teeth at the sensation.

Carrick galloped down the meadow outside Cranston’s formal garden. His long legs propelled him soundlessly over the grass at a speed far greater than a normal horse could manage. Soon he was racing alongside the tall old hedge that formed the borders of the estate and paralleled the long driveway up to the mansion.

Ahead, the hedge formed a corner where the property ended against a road that traced the edge of the river.

“Stop!” The Shadow drove that command into Carrick’s mind with all the strength he could muster.

With a mental laugh, Carrick accelerated in response and the Shadow felt his steed gather himself for what looked like an impossible jump. The hedge was over ten feet tall and every bit as thick in depth. Still increasing his pace, Carrick surged right up to the hedge and then turned the corner as if he’d found an invisible pivot-point, bolting off to the left with no decrease in speed. This left the Shadow to the impersonal forces of physics. He parted company with the Qilin, taking some of his mane-hairs with him, and flew with full velocity into the middle of the hedge. 

The hedge was resilient enough to absorb the energy and break his fall safely, but not before he’d been driven with much crunching and crackling deep into the middle of it. As he began to struggle out, he discovered the hedge had been invaded and subsumed into a tangle of old blackberries covered with thorns. They grabbed at clothing and skin alike and slowed his efforts so effectively that by the time he’d won his freedom, Carrick was nowhere in sight. 

_Well. **Interesting** does not adequately cover this experience. _

[1] Ancient name for what is now the island of Hokkaido. See <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hokkaido>

[2] Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe, go thou and read: <https://www.gutenberg.org/files/82/82-h/82-h.htm>

[3] Cue some fight music, like Cannon in D Minor <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jgxWir6fBqI> or Magika by Two Steps from Hell: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xMktn-0W-E4>

[4] The Chinese “unicorn”. The Japanese variant is “kirin”. A mystical creature that, “only appears when the emperor is virtuous”, which is why he is also known as, “The Seldom Seen”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had the unfortunate displeasure of riding a runaway horse bareback and managed to hang on for maybe 20 seconds. At least I didn't land in anything thorny.


	7. Limited Immunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wow, boss! You look like someone tied you up inna bag with twenty tomcats and tossed you into the river!”  
> “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Cranston. He smiled wryly at Shrevvie through the maze of scratches on his face.  
> “It was at least one hundred cats.”
> 
> The Shadow and the Professor discuss "business". And the little matter of exploding stars.

The sun was lower toward the horizon when the Shadow, cleaned up as much as possible and dressed in an un‑shredded set of Cranston’s clothes, summoned his transportation. A quick check of the garden confirmed Carrick must have looped back to the house while he fought his way free of the blackberry canes. Both the professor and his clothing were gone when Cranston checked the tree branch where Carrick had placed the latter. Stanley was likewise away, along with the car, leaving him to drive into the city with Shrevvie. That worthy eyed Cranston with astonishment as he climbed into the cab.

“Wow, boss! You look like someone tied you up inna bag with twenty tomcats and tossed you into the river!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Cranston. He smiled wryly at Shrevvie through the maze of scratches on his face. 

“It was at least one hundred cats.” 

He was covered in scratches and punctures: face, hands, and body, so Shrevvie’s observation was no exaggeration. He _felt_ as if he’d been in a large cat fight, wrangled a few mules, and wrestled a python as well, just for variety. 

_I’m going to be sore tomorrow_ , he thought with a low chuckle, _although my sparring partner may be in worse condition than I am._ That offered him a modicum of comfort as they drove toward the towers of the city.

\---

The 20th Century Limited[1], the flagship of the New York Central train fleet, was readying for departure at Grand Central Station. Passengers were walking over the famed red carpet and boarding, attended by baggage handlers provided to assist with the luggage of the wealthy and hoping-to-be wealthy customers.

A quick check of the short queue of passengers did not turn up the wayward professor. Cranston strolled up to the window and bought a ticket for Chicago on the Limited, then joined the line. Soon enough he entered the train, and with a tip and quiet word with the Pullman attendant, was directed toward the lounge and observation car, the last car in the train.

Carrick was at a table facing the rear windows and reading a copy of the _Lancet_ , a cup of tea at his elbow. He lifted his head the minute Cranston entered the car and rose to greet him. 

“I was wondering when you would be along,” said Carrick. He gestured to the club chair opposite the small table. “Please have a seat. The tea here is very good.” 

Cranston sat down gently and observed that his erstwhile sparring partner had not a mark to show from their bruising bout of combat. _He’s healed himself!_ And then with chagrin, _why should that surprise me?_

Carrick looked dismayed for his part, once he resumed his own seat and got a good view of Cranston’s face. 

“I am sorry! I was in a hurry and did not realize the hedge was made of thorn.” 

He reached toward Cranston’s face, stopping the motion when Cranston hissed at him softly, making him aware the club car had become populated with businessmen and was no longer empty. He kept his voice low.

“I need to mend that for you when it is safe to do so. The surface scratches are one thing, but deep punctures are entirely another matter.”

Cranston shrugged, suppressing a wince, and waited until the waiter had placed his cup of tea and left before speaking quietly.

“I’ve had worse. The punctures will heal along with the scratches.”

“That is true, but the infections from those punctures will kill you long before that happens.”

Cranston glared at Carrick. “You must be mistaken.”

“I cannot lie.” Carrick pointed at Cranston’s right hand. “It is already starting.”

Lifting his hand, Cranston observed the angry points of red surrounding the wounds. 

“I’ve a strong constitution.”

“I’m sure you do, else you would not have survived so many adventures. But it would be completely wrong of me to leave you in a worse state than I found you.”

Cranston considered the professor’s words. 

“Will you demand my forfeit of the match if I permit you to do so?”

“Of course not.” He smiled nicely at Cranston, eyes flashing with humor. “You did not seem as if you were going to yield before our bout was… interrupted. I am hoping, however, that you do not feel honor demands we commence round two in the middle of the car. Breaking the crockery would distress the staff and alarm the rest of the passengers.”

“And bring far more attention than either of us would prefer.” Cranston gave his companion a polite nod. “I don’t suppose you wish to concede the match?”

“No.” Carrick drew in a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “You must understand I was not made to bind myself inflexibly to a cause or person.”

“No matter how important the cause?”

“It has nothing to do with the cause, but my internal nature.” Carrick sat up a bit straighter and leaned toward Cranston. To anyone observing elsewhere in the car the two men simply appeared to be having an earnest business conversation. He spoke softly. “It is a _geas_ , like your own, and every bit as unbreakable.”

“That puts us at an impasse,” said Cranston. 

“Perhaps,” said Carrick. 

“For now, I will hold our trial by combat in abeyance,” said Cranston. “If nothing else, to spare our fellow-passengers too much excitement.” 

The professor looked out the rear windows of the car. The train was leaving the station and the terminal receded into the distance as the big locomotive gained speed. The summer sun was heading toward a spectacular sunset beyond the canyons of New York City. He smiled suddenly.

“I cannot be a bound servant. I can, however, be a friend.”

“What?” Cranston looked at Carrick as if he had just said, “the moon is purple”. “I have no—”

“Do not speak nonsense, young man.” The professor’s face became stern. “You have a number of people who care for you enough to hazard their lives at your word. If that is not the definition of love and friendship, then my grasp of this language is poor indeed.”

Cranston’s calm expression settled into a severe mask. “They are my agents. Because of this… work, I dare have no fr—” Carrick’s uplifted hand halted the words on his tongue.

“Please. ‘With our thoughts we make the world.’ Therefore, stop building a friendless planet and allow the possibility to come into being.” He smiled at Cranston, stood, and extended his hand. “At least, permit the existence of one.”

“Very well. You are most… persuasive.” Standing, Cranston clasped the offered hand firmly and felt again that slight galvanic sensation and warmth that had accompanied the healing of his shoulder. The warmth traveled up his arm and into the rest of his body in an instant, and he felt the many wounds he’d taken from the thorns fade away. 

Carrick released his grip and smiled broadly at him as he sat down.

“See? I can be subtle.”

 _Subtle?!_ The Shadow abandoned speech entirely and stabbed that thought at the professor with force.

 _Of course_ , came the calm reply by the same mode. _No light displays this time. For me, that’s quite subtle_.

 _You are no spy! I boarded this train with a face-full of scratches. Anyone with decent vision will be able to tell the difference_. 

_People see what they want and expect to see, much of the time. We have been sitting in the back of this “iron horse” while nearly all of the passengers have boarded. No one will know the difference_.

The Shadow exhaled an offended snort, realizing as he did so it made him sound like Carrick. Before he could think of a proper rebuttal to the professor’s theory regarding human visual acuity and memory, a Pullman attendant offered him a sealed telegram, touched his hat at the tip, and vanished silently as a djinn. Cranston opened the telegram, read its contents without a change in expression, and pocketed the note. 

“Assuming all went well, I had been planning to exit the Limited in Albany and return to the city, but I have just received word there is business to attend to in Chicago, and so I will remain on the train until we reach that destination.” 

“Business?” Carrick caught the shift in tone at once. 

“Indeed.” Cranston’s face was perfectly calm. “I have friends, as you would name them, in Chicago that keep me apprised of certain business opportunities, shall we say.”

“I see,” Carrick replied. “Well then, I shall enjoy your company for the trip.”

Cranston’s eyes glinted with grim humor.

“It is sixteen hours and thirty minutes to Chicago on this run, and I fully intend to give you enough training to keep you out of danger until such time as we meet again and I can do a more thorough job.” He smiled pleasantly at the professor. _Since you have been so kind as to heal my hurts, I feel that I can stay awake for much of the time and advance your skills considerably._

Giving Cranston a nod, Carrick replied, “I am your student. You may teach me what you will.” _And in return, perhaps I can share how to tune your_ axis mundi _– when that is in balance, your own natural healing can occur unimpeded_.

The Shadow reined in the urge to laugh aloud. _Taking into account that exploded star in the Well?_

 _Absolutely my friend_ , replied Carrick, _for on such events turn our own being_. _It brought me here to cross your path, and that is a stroke of good fortune_.

“There is no such thing as luck, only careful preparation and precise execution of plans,” said Cranston with some asperity.

“That sounds like Lesson One,” said Carrick, removing his journal and pen from a pocket. 

# Epilog

“Why such interest in an exploded star?” asked Cranston. 

It was well past midnight and the club car was empty of everyone but themselves. The lights had been dimmed, allowing them to see outside without the barrier of window-glare. The sound of the rails clicking by underneath provided a steady rhythm.

“Why would something so far away have any effect on life here?”

“Because everything is connected, and something so apparently far can be nearer than you think.” Carrick replied softly.

Outside it had been raining, but a few bright stars were visible through the wrack of clouds above the edges of the horizon.

“For any people living on a world orbiting that star, its explosion would have made an ending of everything,” Carrick added. 

Cranston followed the direction of Carrick’s gaze to see one of the blue stars of Orion sparkle down out of the night sky.

“ _Were_ there people living out there?” The thought gave Cranston pause. Science said Earth’s own Sun would someday perish, taking the world under his feet with it, but the event was set for an impossibly remote future time.

“Fortunately, no. Giant stars like that one live only briefly compared to their smaller brethren like our own Sun. There is not enough time for planets to form or life to evolve. That star in the Well was only about 100,000 years old, whereas our Sun is over three billion years of age, and still relatively young.”

“That IS a short lifespan, cosmically speaking.” Cranston stretched out a closed fist and flicked his fingers outward. “So a star lived and died, and fortunately, no one died with it. Why did you care?”

“Because blue giant stars are the wellsprings of life.” Carrick patted his chest. “The elements that make up our very bodies, the planet on which we stand, and the Sun that gives us energy, all came from the deaths of parent-stars long ago. The iron in our blood formed in the core of a blue giant like that star. 

“The nebula left by the supernova will eventually coalesce into a new, smaller star, with planets large and small. In the fullness of time, on a world like this one, people will come into being and live.” Carrick looked out the window at what he could see of Orion. 

“Perhaps they will be people of deep wisdom. They will look across the gulf of space and time and wonder if the burned out husk of our star once hosted the world on which their spirits first took root.”

“You are a natural optimist,” said Cranston. He smiled crookedly as he thought it over. “How could we end up on a world so far removed?”

“Things are closer than they appear.” Carrick nodded at his companion. “Your parent star is as close as the beat of your own heart.”

“Thank you, now I’m going to be awake the rest of the night wondering which long-gone star is in my blood.”

“Would it help if I said, ‘all of them’?”

###

[1] A gorgeous streamlined masterpiece designed by Henry Dreyfuss: <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/20th_Century_Limited>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stellar nucleosynthesis - it wasn't until 1920 that Arthur Eddington proposed stars performed nuclear fusion of hydrogen to helium, and that there was the possibility that heavier elements could form in a similar way. The thoughts on what elements were formed in stars developed from 1939 through to the modern era, when better telescopes and methods of determining what elements were in nova remnants advanced our knowledge considerably. The periodic table in this article https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stellar_nucleosynthesis shows what elements formed in which stars. Many of the heavier elements beyond iron such as platinum and gold had to form in merging neutron stars.


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